Heart of Gold
by Louise Hargadon
Summary: Set after the end of the Season 4 episode, Fear Itself. Preston reflects on his feelings for Isabelle and, as a result, dwells on the painful and bittersweet memory of a love now lost forever. Preston/OC. **FINALLY COMPLETE**
1. Chapter One

_**A/N:**__ Before I start, I would like to say that I am painfully aware that the character I've chosen to write about is a grossly unpopular one. That knowledge – coupled with the extremely high standard of writing that this fandom is known to enjoy - has made me more nervous about submitting this story than any other I've ever written. Although this story does link in strongly with_ _Fear Itself, _I'd_ already got most of the plot sorted out in my head before I saw the episode__, which I was amazed seemed to lend itself very well to my idea. My intent is not to cause offence by writing about this character in a positive light. I am simply telling a story that my Muse couldn't let go of, even though I've actually fought it for several months now! _

_Despite the story's subject, I sincerely hope you'll enjoy the content. _

_I'd like to thank __**Dr Michaela Quinn**__ for beta-ing my first two chapters for me. _

_**Disclaimer:**__ Dr Quinn Medicine Woman does not belong to me. She is a free-thinking, independent woman in her own right! Not only that, she and all her friends down in Colorado Springs were created by Beth Sullivan. I'm only borrowing one, nodding affectionately to another and bringing my own original character into the mix._

**Heart of Gold**

**Chapter One**

Preston knew that he was crinkling the papers on his desk by sitting on them so heavily. He didn't care. The last thing he had the stomach for was thinking about his new hotel, or his bank - or anything else aside from Isabelle. Thinking of Isabelle didn't help either. It only made him go to the dark place in his mind that he had tried to block out for so long.

Why did Michaela have to be so callous to him in front of her?

He didn't understand it. In many ways, he and Michaela should have got on like a house on fire. They were both from Boston, they had a similar social standing, similar educational backgrounds and much the same level of intellect. However, it seemed that nobody in town got under his skin or made him as angry as Dr Michaela Quinn did. She could be so presumptuous and judgmental! How dare she impugn wrong motives over his treatment of Isabelle?

At least he had tried to do something practical for Isabelle, which was far more than any of the other townsfolk had done. She had already decided to leave. What was he going to do? Beg her to stay, where he knew that every time she stepped outside people would stare at her in fear as though she were a rabid dog, and clear the streets for fear of catching leprosy? Isabelle didn't deserve to go through such humiliation day after day. Nobody did. It pained him to even think about it. The least he could do was support her decision, attempt make her journey more comfortable and try to ensure that she had the best possible medical care. After all, he still wasn't entirely satisfied that the best medical care available was from a heavily pregnant woman.

He ran his fingers through his thick, dark blond hair and then rubbed his hands over his face. It wasn't really Michaela's fault, he knew that. It wasn't fair of him to blame her. He should have been man enough not to run away in the first place. He should have done more to defend Isabelle in front of the townspeople. He should have - but he was afraid. Afraid of getting too close, afraid of allowing his emotions to control him again - and then losing her anyway. He couldn't go through that again.

Few people in Colorado Springs had many good words to say for Preston A Lodge III. Nobody particularly liked him. Nobody trusted him - possibly with the exception of his clerk, Myra. They spoke to him because he was the financial lynchpin of the town, but nobody would invite him for dinner or purposely seek out his company for any social reason. He could easily stand that level of loneliness. He had very little time for most of the townspeople, and he never lost a moment of sleep over their low opinion of him. Isabelle had been different. He could feel his harsh, self-important façade melt away when he was with her. It was obvious by the way that she looked at him, she would have seen through it in an instant anyway.

In so many ways, she was just like Clara. She had that look in her eyes, the way her chin tilted slightly as she looked at him, weighing him up, deciding what kind of person he was - and knowing she was right about him. She saw the world through fresh eyes and forced everyone else to do the same. She didn't judge, she didn't hate, she was unafraid and had no bitterness towards the hand Life had dealt her. She allowed people the freedom to be themselves.

It had only been a few days since he had first met her. The imprint Isabelle had left on his heart wasn't as deep as the one Clara had left. Perhaps she would be easy to forget. He sighed heavily and looked out of the window. The townspeople had already seemed to forget her, and were continuing with their mundane lives. He shook his head. He wished he had their selective amnesia.

Some days it was easy for him to not think about Clara. Some days he felt as though it had all been a beautiful dream and that she had never even existed. Some days, it was a little tougher. Some days it was all he could do to get out of bed. What was the point in carrying on without her?

_"What's the matter? You think you're the only man who's lost someone they love?"_

He could hear her voice, calm, gentle, contented, as she traced her fingers down the side of his stubbled face. He gulped and breathed deeply, fighting back the tear that threatened to burn its way over his lower lid. _"No,"_ he mouthed, shaking his head vigorously to get rid of the image in his mind.

He could be sure of gold - of money. They were the things that kept him grounded, stable, secure. People seemed to be the area where he really hadn't had the best of fortune. He looked down at his clenched right hand and started twisting the gold ring around his third finger. He knew exactly how much it was worth. He'd bought it. It had cost him two dollars, and had depreciated massively from the moment he walked out of the store with it. It had cost more than it was worth to get resized so it would fit him. It was the most financially idiotic purchase he had ever made. He smiled briefly to himself. It was the only tangible thing he had left of her. To anyone else it would be worth probably no more than twenty cents. To him, it was the one thing he viewed as having more value than the entire Lodge fortune.

Some days, Colorado Springs helped him to forget. Some days, especially since Isabelle had come to town, Colorado Springs was as full of her as Boston had been. He didn't fight it any more when memories of Clara flooded his conscious mind. He preferred those memories - when he knew she was gone - to his dreams of her. They were always vivid, always so real that he could feel her soft, firm skin beneath his fingertips, smell her cologne, run his hands through her raven-black hair as he kissed her. When he woke up and realised he'd been dreaming, the pain was almost too great for him to bear.

Clara Maguire. Nobody would have matched her with Preston. He was an affable enough boy, always happy to talk to anyone, made acquaintances easily, but never seemed to be able to form a relationship strong enough to be classed as a real friendship. As the youngest of five boys, he was used to being the butt of all his family's jokes through the years. He preferred to think that what he lacked in physical strength was more than matched by his sharp-witted comebacks and occasionally acrid tongue. Although this was a trait that had proved useful in his family circumstances, and occasionally in the world of finance - in the presence of day-to-day society, he soon learned that such behaviour could not be tolerated. It was a trait that he had spent considerable time in overcoming, however, on occasion he still couldn't resist an opportunity to needle two opposing parties in an argument, just to see what would happen. This was never done with any real degree of malice, just boyish mischief. There was something extremely satisfying about playing Devil's advocate, after all.

He was a dreamer, he had high hopes and big plans, coupled with the drive and determination to see them through. It wasn't money that he loved in itself, particularly - it was what it could do, the things it could help people to achieve, that fascinated him the most.

Clara was five years older than Preston – bright, bubbly and vivacious. She would throw her head back and roar with laughter unashamedly, not caring a jot about the looks of horror that other women and men would pass at her seeming lack of decorum. She could match any man drink for drink, and speak her mind in the most eloquent, articulate manner. There were no airs, no graces with her - but there was no doubt in anyone's mind, she was all woman. All the woman he'd ever wanted. She had moved to Boston around eighteen months before he left town. One day, she breezed into his father's bank, where he worked as a cashier, walked right up to his counter and beamed at him.

"I'd like to open an account," she declared in a thick Irish accent. His eyes widened, caught completely off-guard. Nobody had ever looked so pleased to walk into a bank. Most people who walked into banks looked grave with worry. Especially the ones who had plenty of money.

"Ma'am?" he'd stammered. She smiled again.

"Somewhere safe to store my money. That's what banks do, isn't it?" she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips. She was teasing him. He blinked once or twice and shook his head briskly, feeling his cheeks burning bright red as she looked at him.

"Uh... I... sure, yes," he spluttered. She reached her hand out and touched his fingers lightly through the bars of the counter. Electricity coursed through his body so strongly that he gasped. "Uhm..." he added, opening and closing his mouth, utterly embarrassed and at a complete loss for words. This was so unlike him. Normally he could talk to anyone easily. He had never been so tongue-tied in his life. It was altogether peculiar.

"Do you want to go fetch someone who can speak English?" she asked, a little concerned. He nodded shakily and disappeared.

"Father, there's a – well... there's a woman in here!" he began, in a bewildered tone. His father frowned at him.

"Did she come in here with the intention of holding up the bank?" he asked, almost worried. Preston shook his head and looked helpless. "For heaven's sake, boy! Have you never spoken to a woman before?" he demanded. Preston shook his head again.

"Not like this one!" he replied.

"Well, go out there and make sure she puts her money in our bank!" Preston A Lodge II insisted, half-pushing his son back to the counter.

Preston's legs felt funny. He didn't know why. He'd spoken to women before, of course he had. Old women, young women, it didn't matter. He'd spoken to far more beautiful women than the one stood before him. She was tall for a woman, almost as tall as he was, and had long, black hair that fell down her back in ringlets. Almost straight away, the woman's emerald-green eyes seemed to see straight through him, as though all of his innermost thoughts and feelings were utterly exposed to her. It was a truly unnerving sensation – one that he couldn't quite decide if he liked or not. Taking a deep breath and straightening his back, he returned to the counter. She beamed at him again. He didn't know what to do aside from smile back at her.

"Hello again," she began. He felt his smile widening. "You know, you should really smile more often. Sure, you'd get the women racing through the doors to hand their money over," she told him. He was visibly taken aback. She didn't so much as flinch when she said it. It was as though she was stating fact rather than paying a compliment.

"Uhm... thank you," he finally answered. "You said you'd like to open an account here, Mrs, uhm..."

"No. Not Uhm. Maguire. Clara Maguire," she corrected him, her eyes twinkling and an impish grin playing on her lips. "And yes, I'd like to open an account. A business account," she explained. He nodded.

"Oh, for your husband?" he asked, innocently. She chuckled.

"If I had a husband, I'd get him to do his own dirty work," she replied. "It's my own business." He grinned at her.

"You have your own business?" he asked, failing to hide his surprise at her statement. Her eyes darkened slightly.

"May I ask which you find more incredible? The idea that a woman can conduct a business by herself, or that she could make money from doing so?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Neither!" he protested. "I... I was just going to ask what you did," he told her, truthfully.

"Are you asking in a professional capacity or a personal one?" she asked. He couldn't help but grin widely at her.

"Let's say personal, shall we?" he heard himself reply, as he leaned conspiratorially against the counter. He could practically feel his father's eyes burning into his back. He had told him to open a new account for a customer, not to fraternise with her! She'd come into the bank on a purely business matter, not to have the young, scrawny cashier flirt outrageously with her! What was he thinking?

To his relief, she grinned back at him.

"That smile is going to get one of us into trouble someday," she prophesied. "I'm a writer," she told him. He chuckled and she frowned. "What's so funny?" she asked, defensively.

"You make a living from writing?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow.

"You make a living from standing behind a counter asking fool questions?" she retorted. He chuckled again.

"Touché," he relented, raising his hands in defeat. Her smile returned.

For days afterward, they seemed to accidentally bump into one another frequently. It helped that he had her address details and she knew where he worked. Although nothing was said about it, both knew that their 'accidental' meetings had required considerable forethought.

_"Good morning, Miss Maguire," he'd begin, tipping his hat cordially. His eyes would gleam with mischief and a wolfish grin would take over his entire face. She'd grin back at him and nod her head in reply._

_"Mr Lodge," she'd respond, politely. "Still trying to escape from your father's bank?" _

_"Still getting caught out!" he'd shoot back at her with a wink. _

Neither of them would stop walking, happy to continue in their separate ways, until one day, Clara avoided eye contact with him completely. He stopped and frowned.

"Miss Maguire?" he called after her, turning around as she passed him. She continued walking, slowly. More of a trudge than her usual, confident walk. He quickened his pace and caught up with her easily. "Clara?" he began, quietly, squeezing her arm gently. She stopped and looked up at him.

"Oh. Hello," she answered, vaguely, smiling politely. His brow furrowed with concern.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, worried. She sighed, weighing his question up carefully before responding.

"I'll be fine, thank you," she finally replied. His face softened.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, kindly. She looked up at him and gazed for a moment into his eyes, trying and failing to find any untrustworthiness behind them. Finally she smiled softly at him.

"No, I'm afraid not. Thank you for asking, though," she answered, walking away from him. The spring hadn't returned to her step, and her walk still was technically a trudge. He caught up to her again.

"I don't mean to be a nuisance, but... I mean... you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he tried to explain.

"I don't," she replied, sharply, refusing to look up at him. He paused and nodded.

"Very well. If you change your mind, I have some business to attend to out of town tomorrow. I can't imagine it being an enjoyable journey without a friend for company. Perhaps a change of scenery might help you put your problem into perspective," he suggested. She finally turned and looked up at him. He felt his cheeks burn as a smile crept over his face.

"You're very kind. Thank you. May I have time to consider your offer?" she asked. He grinned at her, his eyes glinting cheekily.

"Of course. My train leaves at eight tomorrow morning. If you're not at the station, I'll presume your answer is 'no'," he replied. She nodded.

"Eight," she repeated. "Thank you, Mr Lodge."

"Preston," he corrected her. She beamed at him.

He watched her walk away, far happier than she had been five minutes earlier. As soon as he was sure that she was out of sight, he turned and ran back into the bank.

"Father, I need to speak to you right away!" he insisted, rushing behind the counter and dragging his father into the office and away from the customer he was speaking to.

"For God's sake, Preston! Remember where you are!" he scolded him, his tone taking on the same hushed reverence as if Preston had sworn in church.

"I can't work tomorrow," he blurted out. His father's eyes widened.

"You can't?" he asked.

"I'd explain, but it would take too long. I don't care about losing a day's pay. Something more important has come up," he told him. His father looked dumbfounded.

"More important than earning a day's pay in my bank?" he asked, incredulously. Preston nodded. "I don't believe you! Nothing can be more important than that! Don't be ridiculous. No, you can't take tomorrow off."

Preston jutted his jaw slightly in derision as he drew himself to his full height and met his father's disapproving glare without flinching.

"Father. If you don't agree to let me take tomorrow off, I will sit at the front desk and insist that all of your customers take their business elsewhere. I'll close accounts, call in loans and be thoroughly obnoxious to everybody," he warned him. "And don't believe I wouldn't," he added. Preston Senior sighed. He knew that his son had no qualms about saying the most inappropriate of things to the worst of people at the best of times.

"Very well," he relented. Preston grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked, his curiosity now piqued by the thought of anybody doing anything more important than working for him in his bank.

"I'm taking practical steps to ensure my future personal happiness, possibly at the cost of my financial security," Preston replied, mysteriously, almost ready to burst with excitement.


	2. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far - I honestly didn't expect any reaction at all, and certainly not such a positive one - but I am so grateful to all of you!_

**Chapter Two**

Letting out another heavy sigh, Preston walked slowly towards the front door of the bank and began locking up. Just as he'd pulled the last bolt across, he heard a pounding on the door.

"We're closed," he called, sharply.

"Preston, it's Michaela," she called back. He rolled his eyes.

"Michaela, we have nothing further to discuss," he told her, his tone firm but not unkind.

"She's gone, Preston. Isabelle's gone. She got on the train and she's... I don't know where she's going," she answered. He paused, trying to ignore the desolating yet uncomfortably familiar feeling of his heart being wrenched from his chest.

"It's for the best," he finally replied, only just loud enough to be heard through the door. "This town wouldn't have accepted her. You know that."

Michaela opened her mouth to tell him how wrong he was, but stopped herself. Only an hour earlier, Loren had refused to allow her to pick her own fruit from the store because she had touched Isabelle and he was worried that she would infect the entire town with leprosy. The women had stared at her in horror and given her a wide berth. She had heard one woman whisper to another that it was selfish of Michaela to expose her unborn baby to someone like Isabelle.

"And you? Would you have accepted her?" she asked, quietly. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

"I don't know," he answered. "I... I don't know."

Michaela took a step back from the door and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She didn't know what to think of Preston. He was selfish and arrogant and more money-driven than his father had ever been, but occasionally his actions and demeanour showed hints that perhaps, under that obnoxious, mocking exterior... perhaps he was human after all. Or, at least - perhaps he had potential.

"At least you don't need to wrestle over that decision now," she finished, walking away. Preston clamped his lips together and took in a sharp, deep breath. He exhaled slowly.

"I neither asked for nor require your approval," he muttered, almost angrily, as he headed back to his desk. He opened the cupboard behind his desk, then took out a bottle of bourbon and a shot glass, which he promptly filled and knocked back, then repeated the action.

He closed his eyes and, in his mind, returned to the train station at Boston, all those years ago. He could see the train rolling along slowly in the distance, making its steady journey towards the station, huge pillars of black smoke billowing into the air, leaving its trail. There was no sign of Clara. She must have decided not to join him. He now had no idea what he was going to do with his day. The train's final destination was Providence, Rhode Island. Perhaps he would go there, just to see what it was like.

"Preston! Mr Lodge!" he heard a voice yell. He turned around and saw Clara running towards him as fast as her legs could carry her, clutching a book in her hand. "Oh, I'm so glad I've not missed you!" she panted, skidding to a halt in front of him and grabbing hold of both his arms to steady herself.

"Miss Maguire!" he began, a little dumbstruck. "What on earth is the matter?" he asked, noting her flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes.

"Well... oh!" she exclaimed, bending double as she breathed heavily. "Oh!" she panted, fanning her face with the book. "Never run while you're wearing a corset," she advised him, breathlessly. Preston's eyes widened in surprise. He had never heard a lady mention anything about undergarments in public before.

"I'll... bear that in mind," he replied, carefully. Her breathing quickly became more laboured and she leaned all her weight on him, wheezing so heavily that a coughing fit ensued. He delved into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, which he handed to her. She took it, nodded her thanks and covered her mouth with it as she continued to cough. "Clara, are you all right?" he asked, worried, patting her back gently.

She coughed so violently that spots of blood appeared on the handkerchief, causing other people at the station to stare at her disapprovingly. Preston glared at them. Before he could do anything practical to help his friend, the train pulled up at the station. "Can you make it?" he asked, concerned. She nodded, and he helped her up onto the train, supporting most of her body weight as she continued her coughing fit. They found seats in a small compartment and she quickly pulled the blind down.

"You've got to help me undo this corset," she began, weakly, gasping for breath. Preston's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.

"But I can't!" he protested. "That's... I mean... I can't!"

"Preston, I can't breathe! For God's sake, would you rather watch me suffocate?" she rasped, turning her back to him. When she put it like that, he realised he had very little choice in the matter. His fingers trembled as he obediently unhooked the buttons from her dress. He knew he was just helping a friend - he just wasn't sure of the moral etiquette associated with helping an acquaintance loosen her clothing, or exactly how extenuating the circumstances had to be in order to make the activity a legitimate one.

"I don't know what to do!" he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. He wasn't sure if he was panicking because Clara's breathing was getting more shallow or because he was so uncomfortable with the situation he'd found himself in. He just prayed that nobody would barge in and ask to see their tickets.

"Just put your fingers down the top of it and pull. I'll untie the cords at the front and you pull from the back," she instructed. He tried his best to obey her instructions without either looking at her or actually touching her skin, and soon the offending garment was sufficiently loosened. Clara took several gulps of air and her coughing subsided. She sat down heavily and ungracefully on the seat, feeling too wretched to care what she looked like.

"Are you all right?" Preston asked, quietly. "Do you want me to get you anything?" She shook her head weakly, and Preston stood awkwardly, wishing he could do something more useful than simply watch Clara wheeze.

Her face had taken on a ghostly pale hue, and for a moment Preston wasn't sure if she was going to pass out or not. Thankfully, she didn't. He always carried a small hip flask with whiskey in it to keep the cold out during train journeys, and he passed the flask over to her. She took a deep swig and the colour swiftly returned to her cheeks, although she still wasn't able to speak.

"Thank you," she sighed, eventually. She sat up straight and smoothed her hair back with her hands. A squealing sound could be heard every time she exhaled, but that soon subsided. After helping her to re-button her dress, Preston pulled the blind back up and sat opposite her.

"It's - it's no problem," he answered, just about stopping himself from using the words 'my pleasure' - he was sure she wouldn't have taken the words as innocently as he would have meant them. "What were you running for?" he asked. She held the book up.

"My immortality!" she explained, handing it to him.

"Your immortality?" he repeated, frowning. "_'The Poisoned Rose by Clara Maguire'_," he read aloud. He looked up at her in surprise. "This is your book?" he asked. She nodded, proudly. "How does this make you immortal?"

"Sure, you know what they say - _vita brevis, ars longa_," she explained. He frowned. "Life is short, art is eternal. Or something like that. Long, I think," she translated. "It's Latin... even though Hippocrates was supposed to have said it first and he was Greek fellow, I believe," she told him.

"Life is short? Clara, you're not old!" he protested. She smiled softly at him.

"Young people die too, Preston," she pointed out in a melancholic tone. "Whatever happens, in a hundred years' time I'll definitely be long gone. Who knows, maybe in a hundred years' time, somebody will pick up this book, and they'll read it, and they'll know my name and who I was. Who's going to remember anyone else on this train in a hundred years?" she reasoned. "I had to tell you," she explained. He grinned at her.

"Me? Why me?" he asked.

"Because you're my friend, aren't you?" she answered. "I should hope you are! I wouldn't let just anyone help me loosen my corset!" she pointed out. He blushed violently at the memory of his awkward fumbling with her buttons. She laughed at his reaction. "I can't believe you're embarrassed!"

"Well, that's... well... it's not something I make a habit of doing," he answered. She shook her head and laughed.

"Sure, a good-looking boy like you, you must be fighting them off," she insisted. He shook his head quickly.

"Not at all - you haven't met my brothers! By the time any girl gets to me, she's my sister-in-law!" he returned. She pinched her lips together into an impish grin.

"In that case, I'm glad I found you first," she told him. He beamed at her. "So, what business do you have to attend to out of town?" she asked. He blushed and looked at the floor.

"I have a confession to make about that," he began. She looked questioningly at him. "I, uhm, I don't have any business to attend to. You just looked so sad yesterday, I thought it might cheer you up," he explained.

"What about the bank?" she asked.

"Oh, I arranged it with Father, I've got the day off," he replied, gesturing carelessly with his hand.

"You're losing a day's pay at the bank, just so you could cheer me up?" she asked. He shrugged awkwardly. "That's just about the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, Preston," she told him, sincerely, her green eyes shining brightly and her pink cheeks glowing. He shrugged again and cleared his throat.

"That's not something I make a habit of doing, either," he told her, truthfully. Their eyes met and they wordlessly held each other's gaze for a few moments too long. Eventually Preston swallowed awkwardly and broke the moment by looking away. "What was it that upset you so much yesterday?" he asked. She looked at him, sharply. "I don't think we can very well keep secrets from each other, not after this morning!" he reasoned. She chuckled.

"This morning? Good grief, you only saw my shoulder blades!" she reminded him. "You see more than that of the girls on cigarette cards! What would you have done if you'd seen my knees? Propose?" she teased him.

"Please, Clara. Perhaps I can help," he offered. She shook her head.

"You can't. I wish you could," she answered. He quickly moved over to sit beside her.

"I wouldn't do anything that would hurt you. All I've wanted to do since we met is be a friend to you. Please, give me that chance," he insisted fervently, placing his hand over hers and squeezing it gently.

"I've had such wonderful news about my book today. Please. I'll tell you tomorrow. Please, just let me have today," she pleaded. He held her gaze for as long as he could before he felt his cheeks burning, and nodded in agreement.

"Consider the matter closed for discussion," he acquiesced, grinning at her. She grinned back. "Jamaica Plain," he decided. She frowned at him.

"Excuse me?"

"That's where we're going," he told her. She looked doubtfully at him.

"That's only just out of the city! It doesn't sound very romantic, Preston," she pointed out. He raised his eyebrows.

"Who said I was being romantic?" he asked, his eyes glinting mischievously at her. For once, Clara didn't seem to be able to find an answer for him. "Besides, where's more exotic than Jamaica?"

"We're not going to Jamaica, we're going to Jamaica Plain. Their biggest attraction is the soap factory!" she argued. He laughed.

"Who knows us there?" he asked. She pondered this for a moment and smiled at him.

"Oh, I see. Anonymity. Now, you do make a valid point. There is something rather exciting about that," she admitted.

"I just hope they provide a decent breakfast, I'm absolutely starved!" Preston admitted, the growling of his stomach reminding him rather forcefully that he'd only had two cups of coffee before leaving home that morning. She chuckled and nodded her agreement.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few miles, seeing the country flash before them, wondering what sort of lives the people led who lived in the tiny houses that they sped by. It seemed strange that those people would be in their conscious thought for only a moment, yet they could be doing wonderful things, or terrible things – or nothing in particular aside from trying to live their lives in a decent manner.

"Preston?" Clara began. Preston had almost started dozing off, and blinked several times as he shook his head.

"Yes?"

"Is there anything you'd like to do before you die?"

"I'm not planning on dying for at least another fifty or sixty years," he assured her. "Unless you know something I don't?"

"No! I'm glad to hear it," she replied, chuckling. "But is there one big dream you have, something you'd love to achieve?" He thought about this for a moment and nodded.

"I'd like to build something. Something substantial, that will make people happy. A theatre, or a place people would go to for a vacation," he told her.

"That would be a lovely thing to do. You should do it. Decide exactly what you want to do, and do it. Build it. Find somewhere beautiful, and build whatever you decide upon there. So that more people can share the landscape together. That would be a fine thing to achieve," she advised. He nodded.

"Well... it may not be for years," he began. She shook her head.

"Plan it. Build it. There's no point in having a dream if you can't make it a reality."

"What about you?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I've just had my book published. That's my biggest dream," she told him. "It's nice to see my stories in newspapers and magazines, but there's something more permanent about a book," she explained.

"Is there anything else?" he asked. She pondered this for a moment and nodded slowly.

"You know, I've always thought it would be tremendous fun to fall in love," she told him. His eyes widened.

"You've never been in love?" he asked. She shook her head.

"Never. It's a tricky business, really, especially if you hold to the idea that there's only one man for every woman – it's a big world out there, not everybody finds the right one. But something about it must be wonderful, otherwise people wouldn't do it so often," she reasoned. "Have you been in love?"

"I've been warned against falling in love. My father says it's the most financially volatile and prohibitively uncertain pastime of the ages," he told her, shaking his head. She threw her head back and laughed loudly.

"How do you feel about that? Do you share his pessimistic, logistic and generally frigid opinion?" she asked, her left eyebrow arched.

"No. At least, I don't think so – I guess I've never given love a great deal of thought," he confessed, trying his best not to laugh with her.

"Do you think it'd be fun?"

"I suppose it would be if you fell in love with the right person," he answered. She reached her hand out and squeezed his forearm gently.

"Wouldn't it be strange if you and I fell in love?" she asked him, with a giggle. He smiled softly at her.

"Not really. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that I think the idea of you and I falling in love is entirely within the realms of possibility," he replied. She held his gaze silently for a moment before replying.

"So do I," she whispered.

As Clara had predicted, Jamaica Plain was as unromantic as it sounded. The sounds of children singing enthusiastically and out of tune from the local schoolhouse filled the otherwise quiet air. The large police station loomed over the street scene, attempting to dissuade unscrupulous characters from whatever nefarious scheme they may be plotting, while at the same time promising protection and care to its law-abiding citizens. Small bookstores and jewellery stores cluttered the main street, and Clara didn't know whether she was more excited about the fact there were three bookstores on one street or that there was a large jewellery store next door to one of the bookshops. Preston stood outside the local bank, which was far smaller than his father's bank, and gazed at it suspiciously for a few moments. Rather than being filled with a sense of pride that he worked at a larger, more profitable bank, he was surprised to discover that his overwhelming feeling was simply one of relief that he wasn't in work that day at all.

After getting off the train and enjoying a rather late breakfast in a local café, they decided to take a stroll around the town, which they presumed wouldn't take very long. However, they soon discovered that one street looked uncannily similar to the next - and before they knew it they had inadvertently made their way to the other side of town. They eventually came to a stop outside the gates of the soap factory and peered through the iron railings at the large sandstone building.

"Well. There it is," she began.

"It's certainly everything _I_ thought it'd be," Preston commented, his voice coated with saracsm. Clara let out a shout of laughter and he grinned at her.

"This is some place, isn't it?" she asked, turning around, leaning back against the gate and gazing at the street scene before her. It wasn't an ugly town, the houses and the buildings all looked clean and well-kept. The town was almost still with a deafening silence. As though someone would come along at any moment and tell them off for laughing or talking above a whisper. The sense of quietness was heavy in the air, like a humid day - yet it wasn't threatening or unpleasant, simply peaceful and understated. They had only spent an hour's journey on a train yet somehow they both felt as though they were a hundred miles from the hustle and bustle of Boston.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asked, looking at her apologetically. She smiled softly and slipped her arm through his.

"Not at all. Sure, compared to Mullingar, this is a thriving metropolis!" she answered with a giggle. "Besides, they have a theatre here, and I believe tonight there's a production of King Lear, which is one of my favourite plays. What time does the train leave?"

"Three thirty, I believe," he replied, checking his watch. It was just after eleven-thirty. He had no idea how on earth he proposed to amuse himself and his friend for four hours in Jamaica Plain. They'd already seen the soap factory, and on reflection he thought that perhaps they'd peaked too soon.

"Oh. Well. That tears it, I suppose," she answered, biting her lower lip in her disappointment. "How inconvenient."

"There's a production of Macbeth at the Boston Theatre tonight if you'd like to see that?" he suggested. "I don't go in for the theatre much myself, but - if you'd like to go and if you'd like some company I'd be pleased to escort you."

"You don't go in for the theatre, yet you said before you want to build one? Oh, my darling boy. What a conundrum you are! You are going to be hard work. But I think you're going to be worth it," she told him, shaking her head in despair. He wasn't sure why his face lit up so much at such a backhanded compliment.

"I'll try not to disappoint you," he promised. They fell into a mildly uncomfortable silence as they strolled down the street together. "Why did you come to America, Clara?" he asked, making her jump as the silence was broken so suddenly.

"Food. Mostly food," she answered. "That and there was a cholera outbreak not long after the potato famine, it took my mother and father. Mullingar is a fine place, and Ireland is a beautiful country - but there's nothing there for me now. It all feels too sad," she explained. "It's a hard life out there. At least here I can live quietly and earn enough money to make myself comfortable. At least here there's nothing that makes me remember the things I'd rather forget."

"I'm so very sorry," he told her, sincerely. She looked up at his concerned face and smiled at him.

"You're a sweet boy, Mr Lodge," she told him.

"Why do you keep calling me 'boy'? I'm twenty-one!" he pointed out, a little dejected. She squeezed his arm affectionately.

"Take it as a compliment. While you're a boy, you still have hope," she answered. He proffered a slightly baffled lopsided grin in reply.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, deciding it would be easier to change the subject than dwell on his debatable masculinity any longer.

"Oh! I'm fine now, thank you. I'm sorry about earlier. I feel much better now. I'm a terrible timekeeper, that's the problem. I thought I had five minutes longer than I did, and when I saw the steam from the train, I ran as fast as I could! How embarrassing! You must think me a complete fool!" she declared.

"Must I?" he asked, frowning at her assumption.

"Do you?"

"I don't think I ever could," he answered. It was Clara's turn to fall silent. Her cheeks flushed and Preston grinned to himself. "We have four hours to while our time away with. What would you like to do, Miss Maguire?" he asked. She pursed her lips in thought and looked around, hoping for inspiration. Suddenly her eyes rested on a sign for Jamaica Pond.

"I suppose there's always something to be said for a stroll by the water," she replied with a shrug.

"Yes. Wet feet," Preston replied, doubtfully.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Clara studied the exertion on Preston's face with interest.

"I'm no expert, but I really don't think you're doing this right," she ventured.

"I'll get it in a minute, I just need to get the right leverage and we'll be away before you know it," he assured her, panting a little with his strenuous efforts.

"Preston, you've been trying for ten minutes now and nothing's happened yet. I haven't felt a thing!"

"I'm trying my best!" he snapped.

"Don't shout at me, you're ruining the moment!" she chided him. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Perhaps you're too far forward, why don't you try laying back a little?" he suggested.

"How will that help?"

"Uhm... Weight distribution."

"Weight distribution? Are you calling me 'fat'?"

"No, not at all, it's just a matter of science," he answered, carelessly.

"What do you know about science?"

Preston peered up at Clara, his dark blond hair flopping in his eyes and sweat starting to form on his brow.

"A darn sight more than I know about rowing a boat!" he answered, helplessly, finally pushing the oars away in contempt. Rowing a boat always seemed to look so easy when anyone else did it. When he tried to do it, he felt like he was trying to row through concrete. Clara couldn't help but laugh at his defeated expression.

"Come on, let me try something," she offered. After crossing herself briefly, ever so slowly she began to edge her way towards the stern of the small rowing boat and prayed she wouldn't capsize it.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked, a little worried.

"Not a clue. Now, don't be nervous, I'm just going to... aha! I thought that was the problem!" she declared, grinning with pride as she leaned across Preston and unhooked the rope anchoring them to the small jetty. Preston blushed violently.

"Oh my... Oh!" he stammered, unable to find any words to describe his unending embarrassment. They both started giggling helplessly at the fact it had taken them ten minutes to realise their crass mistake. As she pushed herself back up to a sitting position, a strand of her hair caught up in a button of Preston's jacket, which he helpfully untangled for her. Their eyes met and locked. Even though they were outside, Preston suddenly felt rather light-headed and as though he couldn't breathe. The only sound he could hear was his pulse thundering in his ears.

"Would you be terribly offended if I told you I would very much like to kiss you right now?" he asked, his voice shaking with nervous excitement.

"I think I'd be more offended if you didn't at least try to do it," she answered, without even pausing to think about it.

Gingerly, Preston reached out and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. He clamped his lips together and took a breath before closing his eyes and softly pressing his lips against hers. She frowned as he pulled away.

"Was that it?" she asked, a little put out. His eyes twinkled as he grinned playfully at her.

"Don't be ridiculous," he answered, pulling her more forcefully towards him and kissing her again in a far less timid manner.

"Well," she gasped. "You can certainly do that again." He smiled at her.

"I intend to," he replied, pulling away from her and starting to row across the pond. "Eventually," he added, his eyes gleaming. She giggled.

"I don't know, at first you seem so shy, but underneath it all you're a bold young man, Mr Lodge. And I like that about you very much indeed," she told him. He beamed at her but didn't reply.

Preston's mouth twitched into a lop-sided grin as he remembered the rest of their afternoon together. He couldn't remember a time before that moment in which he had ever felt so free to be himself, or so accepted for who he was, rather than tolerated for what he was. For the first time in his life, he was able to just be Preston, not Preston A Lodge II's son, and he loved that feeling. It had been one of the major contributing factors to his decision to leave Boston for good and come to Colorado Springs in the first place.

Oh, how he missed Clara. He wished that they had had longer together. Everything had moved so fast, but on reflection he supposed that it was for the best. Had they lived by convention, he would have been the man in the proverb who hesitated and lost. He hadn't lost, he knew that much. He sighed and poured another glass of bourbon out as he reminded himself that he hadn't exactly won, either.

He remembered how badly he wanted their afternoon together to last for much longer than it did, so much so that he insisted on taking Clara to dinner and the theatre after they arrived back in Boston. Eventually, when they were both so tired they could barely keep their eyes open any longer, Preston agreed to walk her home. They hadn't travelled too far when they bumped into his father, who was also on his way home after an evening with a business associate.

"Preston! I had no idea you'd be out so late," he began, frowning at him. Preston smiled in return, having stopped attempting to elicit a smile from his father years earlier.

"Oh! Hello, Father. May I present a good friend of mine, Clara Maguire. Miss Maguire, this is Preston A Lodge II, my father," he introduced them.

"Miss Maguire," his father began with a nod, which she cordially returned.

"Miss Maguire opened a business account with us two and a half months ago," Preston explained. Mr Lodge's eyebrows shot up.

"A business account, indeed? And exactly what is your business, Miss Maguire?" he asked.

"I'm a writer of mystery stories," she replied, proudly. Mr Lodge's face fell in despair.

"A writer?" he repeated.

"That's right. As a matter of fact, Miss Maguire has recently had her first book published," Preston told him, his voice brimming with pride. His smile disintegrated when his eyes met his father's disapproving glare.

"Is this the woman you've spent all day with? You're trying to secure your so-called 'future happiness' - with a writer? An Irish writer, at that?" he demanded, turning to Preston. Preston instantly longed for the ground to open and swallow him whole. Clara looked at him, her eyebrows raised in delighted surprise.

"Your future what?" she asked, not even attempting to hide her smile. Mr Lodge let out a disgruntled 'harrumph' at her outburst.

"Well, let me tell you one thing - I will never approve this liaison. Never. Listen to me, young lady. I know your sort. You and your bohemian art friends with your loose morals and your excessive drinking - you come over here, you try to snare my boy into marriage and draining him of his hard-earned money by fluttering your eyelashes at him and pressing yourself close to him. Well, if you continue your association with this woman, my boy - you will get not one more red cent from me! Do I make myself clear?" he ranted.

Preston stood, open-mouthed, staring in horror at his father and hoping that he was in some sort of peculiar nightmare. Clara pulled herself up to her full height, set her jaw in derision and returned Mr Lodge's glare with equal venom.

"Crystal. Now, I think I had better make something clear, Mr Lodge. If you think for one moment that my interest in your son is money-driven, then you grossly underestimate both of us. You insult me, and you humiliate the boy whose interests you claim to have so close to your heart," she retorted, her cheeks burning with fury and her eyes flashing with barely concealed rage. "I work hard for my money too, Mr Lodge. I've lost sleep and calloused my fingers and lived on nothing but biscuits and water for weeks in order to meet a deadline, so don't you dare presume that, that I-" she had to stop speaking as another coughing fit ensued.

Preston's eyebrows raised in concern as he watched her double up with the force of the coughing, and as soon as he saw spots of blood appear on her handkerchief, his heart sank. It had been the second fit she'd had that day. He instinctively put his arms around her and allowed her to rest her full weight on him until she had recovered.

"I'm fine. Thank you," she told him, quietly. Although she clearly had very little strength left, she still found enough fight inside her to ensure she had the last word in her exchange with his father. "We have a saying where I come from for people like you, Mr Lodge - _'Póg mo thóin'_. I trust you don't need an translation."

Preston had absolutely no idea what she'd just said, but he was quite sure by her tone and facial expression that she hadn't just wished his father a long and happy life.

"How dare you!" Mr Lodge spluttered, clearly far more cognisant of Gaelic than his son.

Clara glared at him but didn't reply. Instead, she turned to Preston and shook her head. "I'm sorry for you, Preston. You are so much more than he would have you believe," she told him, stroking his face gently before turning around and re-started her walk home.

"Clara!" Preston called after her, desperately. She ignored him and continued her march homeward. He stared at his father, almost at a loss for words. "How could you speak to her like that?" he asked, overwhelmed with incredulity. He tried to search for other words to add to his consternation, but every time he opened his mouth to say anything, the words forced themselves back down his throat.

"Don't open and close your mouth like a goldfish, Preston. Come home now and let's hear no more about this nonsense of pursuing any transient happiness with her sort. I'm not going to allow our family name and fortune to be ruined by a liqor-hardened writer!" he insisted, taking hold of Preston by the elbow. Preston dumbly allowed himself to be led for two or three steps before shrugging himself free of his father's grasp.

"You don't know her, Father. She's smart, and she's talented, she has her own career - and she isn't interested in money!" he told him. His father let out a sardonic snort of laughter.

"Don't be a fool. They're all interested in money!"

"That isn't true! Clara isn't. She's different," he insisted.

"Listen to me, boy-"

"No. I'm sorry, but I won't listen. I'm not a boy any more, Father. I'm too old to come home when I'm called in for supper. I'm not yours or anyone's boy. I'm a man, and it's about time I damn well acted like one," Preston interrupted. He turned away and started walking towards Clara's house.

"Remember who you're talking to! I am still your father!" he yelled after him.

"I remember who you are, Father. I'd ask that you remember who I am," Preston retorted, turning around briefly to shoot a disparaging look at his father.

"Turn away from me and that's it, Preston. There's no coming back when this goes wrong. And it will, boy. Mark my words, it will," his father warned. Preston paused, took a deep breath and continued walking.

It occurred to him, as soon as his temper had died down, that he had no plan of action whatsoever. He didn't know why he was storming towards Clara's house. She probably wouldn't even let him in. He wouldn't let him in if he was in her position. Still, it wasn't right for his father to be so ungracious to her. He'd never seen him even nearly so angry, especially not with a woman. His father was supposed to be a gentleman, Preston liked to think that one day he too would be classed as a gentleman in his own right, and he would never allow himself to speak to anyone in that manner, especially not in public. No. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair and Clara needed to know that he had taken his stand on her behalf.

He had no idea why he wanted her to know how he felt. Except for the fact she already meant more to him than any other person he had ever known, and he knew that nobody else would ever mean so much to him again.

As soon as the first drop of rain fell, he realised he had left his hat on the train hours earlier. Somehow, Clara's house seemed to get further away with each step he took as the rain fell more and more heavily. After a five minute walk that felt like a thirty minute march, he finally arrived at Clara's house and knocked loudly at the door.

"Who is it at this time of night?" she called in a panicked tone. "I'm dressed for bed, I'm not decent!"

"Clara, it's me. Let me in!" he called, tapping on the door. "It's raining and I left my hat on the train! I won't look, please just let me in!"

After a pause that felt as though it lasted an eternity, and an additional ten seconds Preston spent trying to decide whether to knock again, the door opened and he saw Clara standing in the doorway, a dressing gown wrapped around her which she clutched together at her throat. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Mother of God, will you look at the state of you!" she exclaimed, horrified as she saw the rain drip from his hair, face and clothes and onto her porch. "Get inside this minute, do you hear me!" she ordered, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him inside. Almost before he had time to register where he was, she had dragged his coat off and ushered him into the chair by the fire.

"This isn't quite what I'd planned," he ventured. She looked down at his pathetic, rain-sodden form and shook her head.

"I daresay it isn't," she replied. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry. I know this is sudden, but I couldn't take what he said. He was wrong," he began.

"I know that, don't be silly. It isn't your place to apologise for your father," she assured him. He shook his head and droplets of rain splashed onto her arms.

"No. I'm not. I'm apologising for letting him do it."

"It's all right. He's a very imposing character," she answered.

"It isn't all right. Because, dammit - I shouldn't let him talk to you or about you like that. Because a real man shouldn't... Well. He shouldn't let anyone hurt the woman he loves," he declared, standing up at last, unable to contain his internal anguish any longer.

"The woman he loves?" she repeated, her eyes wide with delight. He nodded.

"I think I knew it from the second you walked into the bank. I've never felt this way before so I don't know if this is definitely what this is supposed to feel like - but I can't think of a better word to use. I love you, Clara. And if you don't feel the same about me, I understand. I'll go home right away and apologise to my father. But I couldn't let tonight go by without telling you. I just couldn't," he told her. He didn't know what possessed him but he grabbed her by the arms and pulled her towards him.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, holding back momentarily. He nodded.

"Tell me you don't love me, and I'll leave now."

"I can't tell you that, Preston, because I promised myself I woud never lie to a friend," she answered.

"So you do love me?" he pressed.

"My heart has been in your sole posession from the moment you smiled at me," she replied, truthfully.

"That's good enough for me," he decided, kissing her deeply. "Clara?" he said, softly.

"Mm?" she answered, resting her head on his shoulder and not particularly caring that the rain had penetrated both his coat and his shirt sleeves - as a consequence, she was now almost as soaked through as he was.

"What does _póg mo thóin_ mean?" She blushed and looked up at him guiltily.

"Kiss my arse," she answered, looking at him apologetically.

"Kiss my ass?" he repeated, his eyes widening. "A young female writer from Mullingar told one of the financial kings of Boston to... to kiss her ass?" he asked, looking utterly baffled. She rolled her eyes in shame.

"I was so angry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. It was very disrespectful," she admitted. Preston looked at her for a moment before shaking his head and letting out a snort of laughter.

"That's just about the funniest thing I've ever heard!" he declared, giggling uncontrollably. She couldn't help but laugh too, it sounded like such a ludicrous scenario.

Clara poured Preston a very large glass of whiskey and made him sit back down by the fire. She added another log to keep it burning for longer and sat down beside him. He told her about the argument he'd had with his father and how badly thought through his stand had been. She chuckled.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm not going back home, if that's what you mean. No, he made me make a choice, and I've made it," he answered, stubbornly.

"What are you going to do for money?"

"I'm not worried about that, I've got savings. Most importantly, I don't bank with my father," he told her. "I'll find work somewhere. I'm a Lodge, after all," he pointed out.

"You don't bank with your father? Why not?" she asked.

"Well, I had a feeling that something like this would happen between my father and I one day, and that he'd probably want to close my account as a result. I don't think we've ever had a moment in my life where we've actually managed to have a completely civil conversation," he explained. "Although people assume that the fact I work in his bank means we get along swimmingly, the only thing I actually have in common with Mr Lodge is our name. Why on earth they had four sons before deciding to hand the name down to the youngest is beyond me," he grumbled.

"I think it suits you. It's a lovely name," she told him. He shook his head. "It is. I like it. A name is only what you make of it, after all. You're not your father. People shouldn't expect you to be. I for one am delighted that you're nothing like him."

"I think you're probably the only one," he replied with a rueful shrug. She smiled and shook her head.

"I think I'm probably the only one who's bothered to tell you so," she answered. She stretched and yawned before rubbing the back of her neck and looking at him with an expression of exhaustion. "Come on then. Time for bed," she decided.

"Oh! Shall I... shall I go to the hotel and come back tomorrow?" he asked. She frowned and shook her head.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because you just said it was time for bed," he reminded her.

"That's right."

"Well, I should go then - so you can get some sleep," he suggested. Her eyes twinkled.

"Would I sleep if you stayed?" she asked, interested.

"I..." suddenly Preston wasn't sure that he really knew where their conversation was headed. "I... don't know what you mean," he finally told her, choosing honesty over the possibility of saying the wrong thing entirely.

"If you want to stay with me, Preston, you can," she told him. His eyes widened.

"I couldn't do that!" he spluttered, blushing violently.

"Why?"

"It wouldn't be right," he protested.

"Why?" She knew she sounded like a child, but for some reason she liked seeing him get flustered.

"Because I don't want anyone to think anything about you that they shouldn't," he told her, immediately regretting his statement for reasons he couldn't quite fathom.

"Why would they? And why wouldn't they think anything about _you_ that they shouldn't?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Preston felt completely out of his depth. He knew he wasn't nearly as eloquent as Clara, and he would never even begin to win an argument with her, even if he was brave enough to try.

"I don't know. I didn't say that. I... I don't know!" he protested, looking completely confused. Her shoulders dropped. She really was exhausted, and if she teased him any longer she knew she would feel very guilty for being cruel to him.

"All right. Let's not argue. I'm going to bed. I'm very tired. If you want to sleep in a bed tonight, you can sleep in mine. If you don't, you can sleep on the chair by the fire. Either way, you don't have to stay in a hotel. It's far too late now anyway, and I'd rather have you sleep somewhere warm and have strangers judge you than let you sleep outside on the porch and die of exposure. I understand if you think that makes me an unreasonable woman," she told him, a playful smile creeping across her face. She stepped part-way into her bedroom, retrieved a spare blanket and passed it to him.

"Thank you," he answered, pulling her close to him and kissing her. "Goodnight, Clara."

"Goodnight, Preston," she answered, lingering for a moment before pulling away and returning to her bedroom. Preston sat down by the fire and pulled himself closer to the dying embers, which he watched fade slowly. He wrapped the blanket around himself and closed his eyes, hoping for a sleepy feeling to overtake him.

He turned his head slowly to take one last look at Clara's door. She had left it quite firmly ajar and he smiled softly before shaking his head.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered, before closing his eyes again.


	4. Chapter Four

_**A/N: Thank you to Linda4HIM59 for your fabulous, Writer's Block busting idea!**_

**Chapter Four**

Preston's eyes flickered open slowly. The first thing he saw was Clara's hair, tumbling over her bare shoulders. He screwed his eyes shut and attempted feebly to stifle a yawn. Gently, he brushed her hair aside with his fingertips and kissed her shoulder softly.

"Morning," he whispered, unsure if she was awake or not.

"Hello yourself," she whispered back. He could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm glad you changed your mind," she told him.

"Me too," he agreed, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. The small of his back ached a little, as did his neck and shoulders, but it was a nice ache and one he could very cheerfully grow accustomed to. "How do you feel?" he asked, smiling to himself as he felt her tremble slightly beneath his touch.

"Happy, tired and hungry - all at the same time and in that order," she answered, cheerfully. As soon as she mentioned being hungry, Preston's stomach growled in sympathy, which made her laugh loudly. "I think it's definitely time for some coffee and a plate of ham and eggs, don't you?" she suggested.

"Don't tell me you cook as well?" he asked, his eyes widening. She rolled onto her back and looked up at him, frowning slightly.

"Don't be silly, what's the point in me cooking when there's a perfectly good café across the street?" she replied, looking at him as though he had just sprouted another head. He let out a breath of laughter and shook his head. "No?" she asked. "You don't want breakfast?"

"I do. Later," he decided, planting a trail of kisses along her collarbone.

"Later?" she repeated.

"Definitely later," he answered with a dirty chuckle.

"You've convinced me."

They eventually strolled across to the café for a rather hearty breakfast, Clara clinging tightly to Preston's arm. He could feel that he walked differently this morning. There was an air of confidence - almost a swagger in his stride. He found he kept his head up while he walked instead of keeping his eyes firmly glued to the sidewalk. He genuinely felt that, so long as Clara was with him, he could accomplish just about anything. The first thing he definitely wanted to tackle, however, was breakfast. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so hungry.

The café was a basic affair, but it was neat, clean, had freshly laundered tablecoths on each table and the food smelled heavenly. It was a busy little establishment as well, Preston noted with interest. He only hoped that the food tasted as good as it smelled. He wasn't remotely disappointed and was soon busily ploughing his way through a plate of food roughly the size of a small dog.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked, breaking a silence she'd become rather uncomfortable with, especially as she was aware that he had spent the last minute or so frowning in confusion at the way she pushed her food around her plate without actually eating anything. He cleared his throat and looked up at her.

"I thought I'd stay with you," he answered, an air of nonchalance in his tone.

"Oh really? You'll stay with me and do what, exactly?" she asked, expectantly.

"Uhm..." he stammered, meeting her gaze and blushing violently as he quickly looked down at his half-empty plate. She beamed at him momentarily before forcing a grave expression onto her face.

"You can forget that idea, young man," she told him, sternly. "I have a lot of writing to do today, I have three stories to submit by the end of next week for the magazine, and I'm only half way through my second. I can't have you sitting around my parlour distracting me. Why don't you... why don't you go and see your father? Try and make your peace with him," she suggested. Preston's face fell.

"My father?" he asked, sure that he wouldn't be nearly so unimpressed with her suggestion if she'd decided he ought to spend the day training to become a snake charmer in India instead.

"Yes. I'm not having you stay with me while there's this uneasiness hanging over us, it will only end up coming between us," she explained. He frowned briefly.

"I don't feel uneasy," he told her, cheerfully, flashing a winning smile at her.

"I feel uneasy," she shot back at him. He frowned and pouted like a petulant child.

"That's too bad," he answered, knowing what reaction it would invoke, but deciding it was worth the risk to see her eyes sparkle as she thought of a cutting comeback for him. She didn't disappoint him, as she only had to raise both her eyebrows at him before he dropped his shoulders in defeat.

"It might end up being too bad for you! Don't try me!" she warned him. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Please, Clara. I truly have no desire to see him today. Can't I see him tomorrow?" he pleaded.

"What excuse will you give me tomorrow?" she asked.

"Can I do anything else for you today?" he begged.

"Yes. You can go to your father and apologise to him on my behalf for the way I spoke to him," she replied. He let out a groan of frustration.

"Do you have any suggestions for how I can fill my day without spending a moment in the presence of Preston A Lodge II?" he inquired. She shook her head.

"No."

"Will it please you if I do this?" he asked, sighing in resignation. She smiled, reached across the table and squeezed his arm gently.

"Very much."

"What will happen if I don't do it?"

"You can go home to your family and apologise to your father. Whichever way you look at it, you're speaking to your father today, and I don't want another word of argument on the matter," she told him, finally picking up a forkful of cold scrambled eggs and eating them, as if to signal an end to the conversation. Preston frowned and let out a 'hmph' of disdain.

"You're a stubborn old mule, Clara Maguire!" he told her. Her eyes widened in feigned offence before she swallowed and picked up another forkful of egg.

"And you're an impudent young pup, Mr Lodge," she retorted. He gasped in mock indignation.

"Must you always have the last word?" he asked. Her eyes twinkled as she grinned back at him.

"Invariably."

Preston leaned across the table, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her.

"Now then. Let that be an end to it," he murmured, letting his lips linger dangerously close to hers for a few moments before picking up his coat, leaving money on the table for their meal and leaving, blissfully unaware of the gasps of shock and murmurs of disapproval from the other diners at his outlandish display of affection.

Preston put off his trip to the bank for as long as he could. He walked into jewellery shops to find just the right gift for Clara, but couldn't. If he was totally honest, he had no idea what he wanted to buy her anyway. He ordered a new suit from his favourite tailor shop, then went for a haircut, then strolled aimlessly around town for what he hoped was at least an hour but ended up only being ten minutes. Eventually, after ekeing out his avoidance for three whole hours, he made his way to the bank, where he knew his father would be.

The National Trust Bank had always seemed home to Preston. He had been brought up long after the bank had been established and had visited his grandfather and father at work there. He was fascinated with the way people reacted to money, how they acted when they had it, their struggle to get it, their distress when they lost it. The bank was always a place where so many things happened, lives were enriched, lives were ruined. Although money itself was a slightly abstract concept, people's reaction to it and the things it could do - the power it could wield never ceased to fascinate him.

Today, though, his home from home, his father's bank, his grandfather's bank - one day, it was presumed, his bank - seemed like an alien place to him; dark, foreboding and unforgiving. He felt a shiver of trepidation run down his spine as he walked towards his father's office door.

"Father?" he asked, knocking on the door after he had opened it in a perfunctory bid of respect.

"Have you made an appointment?" his father asked, not looking up from his paperwork.

"I wasn't aware I needed one," Preston answered, cautiously.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked. Preston shifted awkwardly where he stood.

"I... don't want to take much of your time," he began.

"That's absolutely fine, you're familiar with where the door is, I presume?" his father asked, finally looking up long enough to point to the office door.

"Father!" Preston exclaimed in protest.

"Don't 'Father' me. If you have something to say to me, child, say it," Preston Senior barked at him. Preston nodded and continued.

"Clara has asked me to apologise on her behalf for the way she spoke to you yesterday," he explained.

"And well she might. Such language," his father answered in disdain.

"Yes. She realises it was an unacceptable way to address a man of your stature," Preston agreed.

"Well. At least that's something, I suppose. Is there anything you'd like to say to me on your own behalf?" his father asked. Preston paused for a moment and then nodded.

"Yes, Father. Clara has also asked that we make our peace," he answered. Preston Senior shook his head.

"And of course, you wish to keep your new friend happy?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he replied, truthfully. "I... would like very much if you would accept my decision to marry Clara," he continued. His father nearly choked on his own tongue with surprise.

"Marry her? Good God!" he exclaimed.

"I haven't asked her yet, but I do hope for a favourable response. People do get married when they're in love, don't they?" Preston asked.

"Love! What in heaven's name has love got to do with marriage?" his father demanded. Preston didn't quite know how to answer him, so allowed his father to continue with his tirade. "That's why they call them 'love affairs'! My boy, I understand if your... your carnal desires, as it were... have taken over where this girl is concerned, but to marry her when we know nothing of her family or background-"

"Her family are dead. She's the only one left. I understand that her father was a potato farmer in Mullingar who died, along with her mother, during an outbreak of a cholera epidemic not long after the famine," Preston told him.

"A farmer? Preston, I must insist that you cease your ridiculous notion of pursuing a relationship with this girl," his father warned.

Preston opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by another figure storming through the door.

"Would you believe that - oh! It's you!" the man said. Preston rolled his eyes. This was all he needed.

"Hello, Robert," he answered, grudgingly. He briefly looked up at the man stood before him, his eldest brother. He was a clear three inches taller than Preston and very stoutly built. Robert Lodge had the same sharp features of his father, but the same dark blond hair and hazel-brown eyes of his mother. He had married several years earlier but was still very attached to his father, and always seemed to appear at the most inconvenient of times. Preston remembered the many boxing matches he had undertaken with all of his older brothers. The one he always feared meeting was Robert. He could take hit after hit and not flinch, but then floor Preston with what appeared to be little more than a tap.

"Father has already told me about your... little disagreement," Robert told Preston with no small amount of glee.

"Oh. He did?" Preston asked, disinterested.

"He did."

"I see. Of course, you're simply itching to proffer an opinion," Preston guessed.

"Oh, come now, little brother!" Robert smiled, although his eyes weren't reflecting his facial expression. "If you've finally managed to find a woman who doesn't recoil in horror at the sight of you, then who am I to stand in your way?" he asked, laughing at his own cruel humour. Preston raised his left eyebrow slightly and smirked at him.

"Exactly. Who _are_ you to stand in my way?" he asked. He turned to his father and nodded cordially before turning to leave.

"Don't walk away from me!" Robert called after him. "Hey! Preston!"

"Yes?" Preston replied, sighing heavily, clutching the doorway as he walked through it.

"When this goes wrong - and it will go wrong - you can't expect for us to take you back with no repercussions. Just prepare yourself for that," his brother warned.

"Thank you for your consideration, Robert. I trust it won't come to that," Preston replied.

"From what I know of women, you can't trust any of them," Robert called after him. Preston paused and glanced over his shoulder briefly at his eldest brother, hoping that Robert would feel every last drop of vitriol in his glare.

"You don't know Clara," he pointed out.

"She's going to ruin this family, that's what I do know. Her type are only after one thing. Money!" Preston Senior declared. Preston Junior rolled his eyes and shook his head while Robert laughed.

"No, Father, that isn't her type. She's a writer. She's all about the experience. She does it for free. The boy is probably the latest in a very - _very_ long line of similar stupid young men who've had their head turned by her," he sneered.

In any other possible situation in life, Preston would never have taken his older brother on. Not for a million dollars. Robert was bigger, taller, stronger and a lot older than Preston was. Preston was no fool, he knew that his brother would cheerfully squash him like a bug just to see what sort of noise he would make. This time, however, was different. Robert wasn't just provoking Preston into losing his temper in front of his father, he had personally insulted Clara. _His_ Clara. There was no way on earth he could let that lie.

"Sonofa-" he muttered, only just stopping himself from inadvertently insulting his own mother as he landed a right hook firmly on his brother's jaw. He knew, even before he did it, that it wasn't going to end well for him. After wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, Robert looked down at Preston.

"Is this her destructive influence?" he asked, quietly. Without pausing for breath, his fist collided, first with Preston's stomach and then with his jaw. Preston was knocked sprawling on the floor of his father's office, coughing and gasping for breath, tears of pain filling his eyes. "I think he's going to cry, Father," Robert declared, chuckling. Preston had too many feelings boiling inside of him to distinguish one from another, but he knew he was not going to give his brother the satisfaction of watching him break under his bullying actions.

"Preston, I will not have you turn my bank into a bar room to brawl in," Preston Senior told him, firmly. "Apologise to your brother and get out."

"I will not," Preston coughed, pulling himself up to stand facing them. He felt that the only thing he had left was his pride and he was going to hold onto it for all he was worth.

"Then you will leave immediately," his father replied, coldly. Preston swallowed and nodded, before turning to leave again.

"Back to your hussy!" Robert taunted. Preston stopped and took a deep breath but didn't turn around.

"She is a professional writer, working an honest and honourable profession. And her _name_ is Clara Maguire," he answered, before walking out of his father's bank for what he swore would be the last time.

His walk home was a swift one. He had already spent long enough away from Clara and longed, more than anything, to feel her arms around him at that exact moment. He had done as she had asked. His attempts to make his peace with his father could have gone a little better, he thought, on reflection - but at least his father had appeared to accept Clara's apology.

"Knock knock," he called breezily, walking through the door and taking his coat off. Clara looked up at him, immediately noticed the bruising on his face but didn't mention it.

"Did you see him?" she asked. He nodded.

"Yes, I saw him."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, I'll spare you the details," he decided, removing his hat and placing it over his coat on the rack.

"Do you always walk away from disagreements with your father with bruises on your face?" she asked, gently stroking his face. He shook his head, took hold of her hand and kissed her palm.

"Not always," he answered with a rueful smile.

"What did you say?"

"I apologised on your behalf, he accepted your apology. He closed your account so I have your money here," he continued, delving into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out a bundle of banknotes which he dropped on the table. Her eyes widened.

"That's mine?"

"Every last cent of it."

Clara's eyes filled with tears as she picked up the bundle of notes.

"Thank you," she whispered. The more tears she tried to hold in, the more that started rolling down her cheeks. Preston's eyes widened in suprise.

"Clara? What on earth is the matter?" he asked, gently pulling her close to him and stroking her hair.

"Oh, Preston. I'm so sorry," she wept, clinging tightly onto his jacket as her tears dampened the front of his shirt.

"What terrible thing have you done? You can't possibly have done anything that requires an apology to me," he promised, kissing the top of her head. She suddenly pulled away, a panicked look on her face as she looked at him.

"You should go back to your family," she decided.

"Excuse me?" he asked, dumbfounded at her words.

"You should go back to them. It isn't fair for me to keep you here," she told him. He shook his head.

"You're not keeping me anywhere, I'm here because I want to be with you," he reminded her.

"It was selfish of me to let you do this. I wanted you to stay because of how I feel about you. I should have made you go home," she told him, shaking her head.

"Why should you have made me go home?"

"Because this won't work," she answered

"What won't?" he asked. She let out a groan of frustration and rubbed her hands over her face.

"You and I. We can't be happy together," she told him, bluntly.

"Are you unhappy? Have I done something wrong?" he asked, concerned. He would gladly have walked over hot coals before leaping into a pit of broken glass to make her happy, he knew that.

"No, of course I'm not. But... it isn't fair of me. I should have told you everything before we... I shouldn't still be keeping this to myself," she tried to explain.

"Keeping what to yourself? Clara, you're starting to worry me," Preston told her.

"I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I just... Being with you makes everything feel so much better and I don't want things to be spoiled," she added, still not explaining herself at all.

"Why would they be?" Preston was now completely confused.

"Because... Oh, Preston, I don't know what to tell you!"

"Just tell me, it can't be that bad!"

"I'm afraid it can. We have no future. Your father was right. I understand if you want to go," she said.

"Why don't we have a future?"

"I will break your heart. I don't want to, but I will. And I don't want to be responsible for that."

"You won't break my heart, not if you don't want to - there's no reason we can't be together. We can get away from Boston, start a whole new life together."

"I would love that - but I don't have a whole new life to share with you. Your family are right. I'm not to be trusted. You should go home."

"You're sending me away?"

"I'm doing this for your own good, Preston," she told him. He shook his head vigorously. He didn't want to be told anything 'for his own good' again. Least of all by Clara.

"For my own good? Now you're starting to sound like my father!" he told her, scornfully. She pressed his lips together with her index finger and shook her head in protest.

"No, not like your father. I don't want to be responsible for one second of pain in your heart - but if you stay with me, I'm afraid that will happen," she answered. He reached out and squeezed her shoulders gently.

"Clara. Do you love me or not?" he asked, gazing deeply into her eyes.

"Of course I love you. That's why I'm telling you to go," she answered, clearly getting more upset by the moment.

"You really don't want me?" he asked, hurt.

"Yes. Of course I want you. But I want you to be happy, and I can't give you that."

"You can't give me that? You've given me that! I've told my father and my eldest brother to go to hell this morning because I was given a choice of them or you - and I chose you. My mind is already made up, Clara. You can't say 'no' to me, not now," he told her, firmly.

"I have to."

"Don't I get any say in your decision?"

"I'm afraid not, my darling boy. Not this time," she answered, sadly.

"Why ever not?"

She held his hands tightly, took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. Her next four words were the last ones Preston ever expected her to say.

"Because I'm dying, Preston."

Preston's heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach, the colour instantly draining from his cheeks.

"You're what?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

"The reason I was so upset the other day was because I'd just been to see the doctor for these awful coughing fits I've been having. He told me I'm dying. Not in the theological 'we're all dying' sense of the word. I have an advanced case of consumption. There's no cure. I'm going to die, and I'm going to die soon. I won't be old and grey. I'll be young. I'll be too young for us to have time to be married and have children. And you don't deserve to be around when that happens. I'm so sorry. I wanted so badly for us to be happy together - but we can't be. It was wrong of me to let you think we could have anything more than what we have," she explained, hardly daring to look at him because she couldn't bear to see the hurt on his face.

Preston slumped into a chair, his knees buckling under the weight of her words.

"This is some joke!" he decided, his cheeks dimpling as he started to laugh. She bit her lip and shook her head.

"No," she answered, sitting on his lap and squeezing his hands again.

"You're... dying?" he mouthed, too scared to say the words aloud because he genuinely had no idea how he was going to react. Clara nodded. His eyes darted everywhere around the room but in her general direction while her words attempted to penetrate their way through to his brain. He shook his head vigorously. "No," he answered firmly, wrapping his arms tightly around her and holding her so close to him that he was almost afraid he might break her. "No."

Clara found she had no words of comfort for him, all she could do was curl up on his lap, hold onto him just as tightly and pray that his embrace would help to take her own pain away.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

They stared into space silently, both hoping that one of them would say something to make everything better.

"They can't do anything? This day and age, doctors can't cure you?" he finally asked. She shook her head. "This is ridiculous. You're... you can't... there must be something we can do! If you need specialist medical attention, we'll get the best doctors in America to help you. We'll go to New York!" he suggested, gesticulating wildly as his hair flopped in his eyes. She sat up, cupped his face in her hands and gently turned him to face her.

"Preston. I love you for what you're trying to do. Please don't think I don't appreciate it. But I've not got long. It might only be six months, it might only be a year. Let me live the rest of my time. Let me enjoy it. Let me squeeze every last drop of excitement out of every blasted day I've got left. I don't want to die as an invalid," she told him, gently, allowing her hands to run slowly down his chest until they rested on his hands.

His eyes flickered and finally he took a deep breath and swallowed.

"Very well," he relented. He swallowed again and felt his eyes and nose starting to burn with the threat of tears. He pinched his lips together and breathed in sharply to control them, hoping she wouldn't notice - but, of course, she did.

"Please. Don't. Not that. I never want to be responsible for making you sad," she pleaded. He looked into her eyes and briefly gave her a lop-sided smile.

"You don't make me sad, Clara. It's not your fault, for God's sake," he answered, shaking his head. "I just wish I could do something." She pulled away from him momentarily and made a show of pretending to think of something helpful he could do for her. Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she finally looked him in the eyes.

"I suppose, as there's nothing else anyone can do - it won't change anything but it'll make me feel better, so you might as well kiss me," she answered with an impish smile. He grinned wolfishly at her.

"I guess I might as well kiss you," he murmured, pulling her firmly towards him and clutching her tightly as if he was terrified that if he let her go she'd disappear forever.

Preston absentmindedly traced his fingertips across his lips at the memory of the kiss. Oh, how he wished that they had had as long as six months together.

Clara's condition, it transpired, was far more advanced than either of them had imagined. Her health got much worse, much faster than they had expected. Her coughing fits increased, with such intensity that on several occasions she fainted completely, which sent Preston into a blind panic as he opened windows, fanned her face and wafted smelling salts underneath her nose to revive her, all the while praying to anyone who might listen to not take her away from him just yet. It wasn't too long before even going outside proved to be too much for her and so she was confined to their little home. She stayed as cheerful as she possibly could, and her attacks became less frequent when the cold air didn't sneak in through the window and chill her back. She became steadily weaker and more pale, but she battled on courageously,

Two months after she broke the news to him, she surprised him with a request he never thought he'd hear.

"Marry me," she said, suddenly. It wasn't a question. It was an instruction. Preston's eyes widened. He was sure that wasn't quite the right way round of doing things - but he supposed nothing about Clara was conventional anyway, if anything it seemed fitting that this should be the way marriage was proposed between them.

"Marry you?" he repeated, surprised.

"I don't want to die as your lover, Preston. I want to die as your wife," she told him, seriously. Preston smiled at her and shook her head.

"I don't want you to die at all," he told her. She shook her head impatiently.

"I'm not exactly doing cartwheels of excitement at the prospect, either," she retorted.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"I haven't got time to be anything else but serious about this. Do you want to marry me or don't you?" she asked him, firmly.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I want to marry you! I'll go and arrange matters now, if you like," he offered, grabbing his hat and heading for the door. She suddenly started giggling. "What? What's the matter? You were joking?" he asked, now completely baffled. She shook her head vigorously.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I just couldn't help but laugh. I'd always imagined that marriage proposals were by and large, far more romantic than this one!" she explained, chuckling. He laughed. She made a fair point.

"Clara Maguire, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?" he asked, his hand still firmly on the door handle. She nodded.

"I'd love to," she answered, smiling broadly at him. He nodded.

"I'll be back in an hour," he told her, tipping his hat as he walked out of the house and headed across to the local Church, where he found Reverand Clarke busily polishing the pews in readiness for Sunday's sermon. "Reverend?" he began. The Reverend looked up from his work and waved at Preston before slowly hoisting himself up. He was a short, portly man of forty-five or fifty with a rapidly receding hairline.

"Can I help you?" he asked, dusting himself down.

"Yes. I'd like to get married," Preston blurted out.

"I'm sorry, son, I'm already married," the clergyman joked. Preston flushed red and shook his head.

"No, sir, I mean - I've asked a lady to marry me and she's agreed," he explained.

"A much more fitting arrangement in this case," the Reverend agreed. Preston nodded and the Reverand indicated for him to continue.

"Sadly, my fiancée is very ill and she can't leave her house. We wondered if there was a chance you could take the service at what will be our home?" he asked.

"Is this lady a fine Christian of good standing?" he asked. Preston nodded again.

"She's a Catholic," he answered. The Reverend shook his large, bulbous head frantically, panic-stricken.

"I'm sorry, son. I'm not a Catholic priest, I can't conduct the ceremony."

"But! But! But - _I'm_ Protestant!" Preston answered, completely flustered. "She's dying, sir, can't you just... isn't there anything you can do?" he pleaded. The Reverend shook his head again.

"I understand your predicament, believe me - but I'm afraid my hands are tied. Listen. Father O'Leary's a very nice man. He's Irish, though, so don't tell him you're not Catholic or else he definitely won't do it!" the Reverend advised. Preston shook his hand absently, tipped his hat and stumbled towards the door of the Church, shaking his head in disbelief. He had no idea that it mattered what religion they were so long as they got married by a man of God! It didn't matter to them, why should it matter to the clergy?

"I don't think Jesus would've cared what religion we were," he suddenly blurted out.

"It's a sin to take our Lord's name in vain, young man!" the Reverend told him, sternly. Preston eyed him coldly and nodded.

"And it's a sin to hold back good from those to whom it is owing," he replied. "Saint Paul said that. Look it up," he advised, turning around and storming out of the Church.

The Catholic Church in Boston had always scared him. He had never been inside, of course. In fact, the only reason the Lodges ever went to Church was in order to be seen at Church. Preston knew that. God had never been mentioned in their home, he had never been raised to believe in anything greater than himself, and he wasn't sure if there was anything else out there he could believe in that wasn't tangible. He only knew one scripture and he'd just quoted it at Reverend Clarke. He didn't even know where it was from. On reflection he wasn't even sure if it was in the Bible, but he supposed it must have been.

He jogged up the steps and opened the large, heavy door. He walked in and saw a small, unassuming, slightly built man in his late fifties stood in front of a large, grotesque cross, a depiction of Jesus draped across it, in the throes of death. Preston shivered involuntarily.

"Sir?" he began. The man turned around.

"How can I help you, young man?" he asked in an Irish accent far stronger than Clara's. Preston swallowed before he began speaking.

"My fiancée is dying. She can't leave her house. The Protestant Church won't marry us because she's Catholic. We just want to be married," he explained, simply. "The Reverend said he wouldn't and that you wouldn't either if you knew I was a Protestant." Father O'Leary raised an eyebrow at him.

"Did he, now?" he asked. Preston nodded. "Well, let me tell you something, son - the next time the Catholic Church follows the lead of the Protestant Church will be the first time!" he decided, nodding firmly and rolling his sleeves up. "When would you like this blessed union to take place?" he asked, smiling kindly at Preston. Preston shrugged helplessly.

"As soon as possible. Are you free today?" he asked. The priest nodded. "Are you free now? I don't care how much it costs, I'll pay whatever you want."

"Let me get my book and I'll be ready in about an hour!" he promised, grinning excitedly. "Do you know, this is probably the most thrilling thing that's happened to me since I moved to Boston!" he declared. "There's nothing like a bit of romance to warm the heart!" Preston beamed at him.

"I'll go back and tell her you're on your way!" he decided. He told Father O'Leary where Clara's home was and gave him explicit directions on how to get there, and then dashed back to her. "Clara!" he called, bursting through the door suddenly and bashing the door against the wall with a loud bang. She let out a shriek of fright.

"For heaven's sake! Is there any need to make such a row?" she demanded. "Look at this sheet - it's taken me an hour to write it and now I'm going to have to start again!" she told him, holding up a large sheet of neatly-inscribed paper which had been spoiled by a large splodge of ink and a squiggly line that almost ran from corner to corner.

"There's no time for that. The priest is on his way. Hurry up!" he urged her, gently pushing her into the bedroom. "We've not got time to argue, just put your finest dress on and he'll be here!" he told her. She clapped her hands together in glee and instantly forgot about whatever she had been writing.

"Did you get the ring? What does it look like?" she asked, rushing over to him and rifling through his pockets to locate it. Preston blushed and untangled himself from her grasp.

"I, uhm... I forgot to get a ring!" he confessed. She looked horrified.

"I'm going to find my nicest dress. You're going to buy me a wedding ring and it's going to be a nice, grand one! I don't want to be the only Mrs Lodge out there with a pitiful excuse for a wedding ring! You've got practically no time to buy it - skip now!" she urged him, turning him around and almost pushing him out of the door.

He took his jacket and hat off, laid them neatly on the front porch and raced as fast as his legs would carry him into town to the nearest jeweller's shop. The first ring he saw had a crudely designed detail of a four-leaf clover on it. It was advertised as a wedding ring, yet he couldn't really see any woman wanting to wear it. He grinned.

"You wanted grand..." he muttered to himself, chuckling. He signalled to the jeweller that he wished to buy it, and the jeweller stared at him in surprise.

"You're joking?" he asked. Preston shook his head.

"You think it's inappropriate?" Preston inquired. Thew jeweller shrugged awkwardly and nodded.

"I think it'll take more than the luck of a four-leaf clover to make any marriage happy!" the jeweller replied, bitterly. Preston laughed and grinned broadly at him.

"You've not met my girl," he told him, nodding and shooting him a wink as he dashed through the door. "Inappropriate is exactly her style!"

Clara laughed loudly when she saw the ring and told Preston that it was perfect. It turned out that he got back just in time, because by the time he'd put on his best suit, the priest had arrived.

Preston had never really given much thought to his wedding day. It wasn't what men did. They expected that everything would be taken care of by the women involved in the big day, and that the arrangements would take months, possibly as long as a year to plan. He had always assumed that, should he ever be in a position to marry, that his only job would be to turn up at Church on a specific day at a specific time and hope his bride decided to turn up on time.

He had certainly never expected that his wedding day would be proposed, arranged and carried out in less than two hours. He had never expected that the entire ceremony would be so easy to arrange - and he had certainly never expected to have to physically hold onto his bride for fear of his knees giving way beneath him when the priest said the words, "'Til death us do part." Those words should never have hurt so much on that day. The fact that their future happiness was so transient and completely shadowed by the fact they would never celebrate their first anniversary together tore at his gut with the ferocity of a wild animal.

After he had left, shaking both their hands vigorously and wishing them a happy life together for as long as God permitted it - admittedly he was a little tipsy after Clara had insisted that he join them in a few celebratory glasses of whiskey - they stood in her parlour and looked at each other.

"Well," she began, shrugging. He blinked and nodded.

"That was never how I imagined it might be," he confessed. She shook her head.

"Me neither," she agreed. He reached out and took hold of her hand.

"Are you happy, Mrs Lodge?" he asked her. She beamed at him.

"I think that name suits me well," she answered, squeezing his hand tightly. He nodded.

"So do I," he said, pulling her towards him and kissing her. "Now what?" he asked. She thought for a moment and grinned.

"I want to go out."

Preston's face fell. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked, warily.

"I'm tired of being ill and being trapped indoors. I want to go out to the theatre and I want to hold your hand while we look at the stars on our porch and then I want to sleep in your arms and feel as though nothing can hurt me," she declared. "That is what I want to do on my wedding day." He nodded.

"And all I want to do on my wedding day is make you happy, so I guess that means we're going out!" he agreed.

He couldn't remember what play they went to see. All he could remember was spending the entire evening not being able to stop looking at her. The day had gone so quickly. Not just the day - the last two months had flown by, and he still hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that the singularly most intelligent, beautiful, independent and downright sassy woman he had ever met had actually fallen as heavily in love with him as he had with her. That she had been the one to suggest marriage, rather than be the one to simply agree to it, still hadn't sunk in. He couldn't help but grin like an idiot when he saw her smile - and he pinched himself to check that it was real and not just a dream. If he could bottle the unbridled joy he felt at that exact moment and sell it, he would have made his fortune at least twenty times over.

When they left the theatre it was already dark, and by the time they got back home she was visibly exhausted, but insisted on taking a few minutes to look at the stars with him. They stared up into the black night, gazing in wonder at the myriad stars spotting the sky, as if someone had splattered white paint on a black canvas. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest.

"One day, you'll look up and the brightest star, the one that looks the friendliest - that'll be me smiling at you," she told him. He squeezed her tightly.

"Let's not think about that tonight," he replied, quietly.

The cool night air soon became far too much for Clara to deal with and, as they both suspected it might, another coughing fit ensued, which led to her collapsing outside. Preston gently lifted her up and carried her into the house. He shook his head and swallowed down the lump in his throat. This was definitely never what he had in mind when he'd thought about carrying his bride over the threshold for the first time. Laying her down carefully on their bed, he opened the windows and eventually managed to revive her.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, weakly. He shook his head.

"You do worry me, young lady," he answered, stroking her hair. She smiled.

"'Young lady' indeed!" she repeated, letting out a breath of laughter which caught at the back of her throat and started another coughing fit. He helped her to sit up in bed and rubbed her back until the coughing subsided. "This is probably the least attractive wedding night any two people have ever spent!" she joked.

"Don't. It isn't funny," he told her, surprising both of them with his sharp tone. "Every time I try to forget it, something happens, or you say something, or - can't we just have this one night? Just without thinking about... that?" he begged her, clutching her hands. "Don't spoil today with making me think about it, for God's sake!"

"You sound angry with me," she told him, quietly. He looked at her, his big brown-green eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm not angry with you, sweetheart. I'm angry with Fate for doing this to us."

"What's the matter? You think you're the only man who's lost someone he loves?" she asked him, stroking his stubbled face and letting her fingertips trail softly down his throat and chest. He swallowed hard.

"I'm the only man who's going to lose you," he answered, bitterly. She shushed him gently and pulled him close to her. He lay his head on her chest and she stroked his hair softly.

"Oh, my darling boy. You'll never lose me. This is true love, isn't it? Do you really think something as temporary as death is going to part us? Do you think I'll ever leave you? Do you suppose there's going to be a day I won't look down at you from my cosy little cloud in Heaven and worry about you, and long to hold you close to me as I'm doing now?" she asked him, her voice cracking with emotion.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," he whispered.

"Oh, Preston," she sighed. "I'm not scared of dying - but I'm terrified of breaking your heart."

"You are my heart," he told her, simply. "I want to be strong for you, Clara. But I don't know if I can take this."

"Now. Listen to me. Can you imagine the lonely, miserable existence I'd have had to go through over the last few months if it hadn't been for you? I don't know if I could have faced this at all without taking matters into my own hands if you hadn't come into my life. Even though what will happen to me isn't going to change - you have given me all the strength I need to see it through to the end. So we'll have no more self pity. It's been a big day and I'm very tired. Just tell me you love me and let me sleep tonight. We'll see what tomorrow brings," she decided, pushing him off her and rolling on her side so that her head now rested on his chest.

"All right, then. I love you," he answered, smiling slightly at her irrepressible attitude.

"I love you too. Goodnight, Mr Lodge," she said. He grinned broadly, tilted her face towards his and kissed her deeply.

"Goodnight, Mrs Lodge," he murmured.

The next morning he awoke first, which didn't really surprise him, Clara was very fond of sleeping and not particularly fond of mornings. He quietly got up and set about getting ready, deciding that she'd appreciate sleeping in before they went about their day's adventures. As he dressed, he pondered on the idea of taking Clara on a trip for a few days. Out of the dust and grime of the city, perhaps near a mountain or a lake, in the hope that perhaps a change of scenery and some fresh, clean air would help to make her feel better - maybe even keep her with him for a little longer. After all, every newly married couple deserved to go on a honeymoon, didn't they? Why should they be any different? If anything, he reasoned, they deserved one more than most others did.

He briefly looked over at her sleeping figure and hugged himself happily. As quietly as he could, he left the house and went to the café across the road to buy their breakfast. He was famished, as he usually was of a morning, and it took him all of his willpower to wait until he had returned home before he started digging in. The door slammed shut behind him and he winced. "Sorry!" he called out. He looked in through the bedroom door and was amazed she hadn't even flinched. "Come on, Clara, it's time to wake up, we've got things to do!" he encouraged her in a sing-song voice. Normally that voice was guaranteed to make her growl and swear at him, but she still didn't flinch. He shrugged. Yesterday had been a momentous day, she must have been more tired than he'd realised.

He arranged the breakfast things neatly on a tray and brought them into the bedroom. "Don't expect service like this every morning, but I thought it was a special occasion," he joked, placing the tray on the bedside table and leaning across the bed to kiss her cheek. "Come on, lazybones! Wake up! Do you want me to eat breakfast for you? Because I will!" he threatened.

Clara still made no attempt at movement. Not even she was capable of sleeping so deeply. Preston frowned. Looking back, he realised that he had probably known what had happened from the moment she failed to react to his accidental slamming of the door, but at this point he still stubbornly refused to acknowledge the facts. He brushed her hair from her face with his fingers and was surprised at how cold her skin felt.

"Clara?" he asked. She didn't reply. "Clara, come on, wake up," he urged, shaking her gently. She didn't move. He felt a wave of panic well up inside and wash over him. "Please. Please wake up," he begged, shaking her a little more forcefully.

Her lips were still turned up slightly at the corners, an enigmatic smile that Preston suddenly realised would always remain there.

"No. Not this. No! You said six months. It's only been two! Come on, Clara, don't make yourself a liar," he pleaded desperately, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he could scarcely breathe. "You can't do this. Please. We have too much to do, you can't leave me now!" He gently tilted her face towards his with his finger, but her eyes didn't open and her head fell back onto her pillow as soon as he released his grasp.

Clara was dead.

Overwhelmed by the suffocating, dizzying sensation of his heart being crushed to little more than fine powder, Preston had no idea what to do. He wrapped his arms tightly around her body and kissed her lips gently for the last time, then buried his face in her long black hair and wept bitterly, whispering fervent declarations of love into ears that would never hear them.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

The next few days went by in a blur. Clara was buried in graveyard of the local Catholic Church and the priest's Latin service meant nothing, nor did it provide any comfort. The only mourner, the only one who knew her, was Preston himself. He had no hand to hold, no smile of regret or support to look kindly upon him, no memories to share but the ones he held in his heart.

He forced himself through the pain of watching her coffin lower into the ground, and then being slowly covered over with soil and dirt. Clara hated feeling closed in. She got too restless to be cooped up with no way out. He looked up toward heaven and hoped her spirit was as free up there as it had been on earth.

The most unexpected thing that Preston did, shortly after the funeral, was to return to his family. He had been told not to. He didn't even think he wanted to go back, and he certainly had no idea why he suddenly found himself knocking on his old front door, waiting to be let in.

It was a Wednesday. It was the maid's day off and his mother answered the door. She gasped in surprise.

"Preston!" she exclaimed. He nodded.

"Hello, Mother," he replied. She pulled him into an embrace and told him how terrible he looked before reeling off a long list of food she was going to prepare for his evening meal.

"Don't crowd the boy, Eleanor," a stern voice interrupted her. She pulled away quickly and apologised. Preston looked up at his father, suddenly extremely conscious of his unkempt appearance, facial hair and crumpled clothing that was now far too big for him as he hadn't really eaten much since Clara had died.

"You're back, I see?" his father began, tilting his head up and looking down at Preston. Preston nodded.

"Yes, Father. I'm back," he replied, quietly.

"It didn't work out with the girl?"

"Something like that," Preston answered with a brief nod, screaming at himself not to cry in front of his father.

"I did tell you, of course," Preston Senior reminded him, completely unhelpfully. Preston nodded again.

"Yes. You told me. You were right," he agreed, staring solidly at the floor.

"There's no danger of her reappearing at any point to ask for money?" his father checked.

Preston bit his lip and shook his head. _'If only,'_ he thought, sadly.

"None."

After a brief pause, Preston Senior cleared his throat and spoke again.

"There's little point in discussing the matter. Your room is where you left it. I don't want to hear another word on the subject. We shall forget this little childish episode ever happened," he decided.

Preston nodded dumbly and walked slowly to his old room. He sat heavily on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly, he heard a gentle knock on the door.

"Preston?" his mother called.

"It's not locked, Mother."

The door opened and his mother walked into his room. She ran her fingers through his hair before sitting next to him on his bed and squeezing his arm lovingly.

"Your father worries about you. He may have his own - unique way of showing it. But he does care," she told him. Neither of them were sure that she really meant it, but the sentiment was a lovely one nonetheless. "What happened with the girl, darling?" she asked. Preston looked at her and clamped his lips together, forcing back his emotion.

"She, uh-" he paused and cleared his throat, trying to ignore the tears that filled his eyes. "She died, Mother. She died." His mother gasped in shock and pulled him towards her.

"Oh, my boy. Oh. I'm so sorry," she told him, smoothing his hair and rocking him gently in her arms.

"I'm sorry too. She was my... We were..." he stammered.

"You don't have to tell me," his mother told him, not sure if she even wanted to know what he was trying to tell her. He fumbled in his pocket and produced the gold band Clara had worn for less than twenty-four hours. "Oh my lord!" she realised.

He nodded briefly before being overcome by tears.

"Everything hurts so much," he wept.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," she shushed him.

Preston's entire body trembled with the effort of steeling himself and forcing his emotions down.

"Part of me should be happy she isn't suffering any more," he told her. "But I'm not. No part of me is happy. I don't think any part of me will ever be happy again. Clara used to call me her boy. She said as long as I stayed a boy, I still had hope. But I'm not a boy any more mother. I'm a man now - and I have no hope. Everything I ever hoped for died with her. I don't know how to carry on now."

"When did she pass away?" his mother asked.

"Three weeks ago."

"Oh, Preston!" his mother exclaimed, not sure whether to laugh or cry. "This is all so very new to you. You can't turn your feelings on and off like a tap. You should know that by now. It will take time before you learn to move on. But you must always keep your heart open to love. I never met Clara, but if she loved you as much as you say she did - she wouldn't want you to stop being who you are. What am I to tell your father?"

"Nothing. Please. Don't tell him," he begged. His mother looked at him doubtfully.

"I can't keep this from him," she answered. He shook his head vigorously, a feeling of dread already welling up in the pit of his stomach.

"I will never ask you for another thing as long as I live. Please - just do this one thing for me. Don't tell him about Clara. Let this be our secret between the two of us. I can take his disapproval. I just couldn't bear his pity," he explained. His mother sighed heavily and eventually nodded.

"Very well. But you must promise me you'll eat something, Preston. You look terribly ill. Clara wouldn't want you to make yourself sick, I'm quite sure," she pointed out. Preston opened his mouth to argue, but he could practically hear Clara telling him she had no need for a skinny man who didn't have the strength to lift his head. He smiled softly at her and nodded.

"I must admit, I'm absolutely starved," he told her, quite untruthfully. His mother beamed at him and left his room with promises of the most incredible meal he had ever eaten in his life.

An hour or so later, there was another knock on the door - however, this time, nobody waited to be bade entrance into Preston's room. Indeed, why would they? The person who had knocked on his bedroom door was the owner of the house - Preston A Lodge II himself.

"Preston?" he began. Preston looked up at him, but found he was unable to meet his gaze and looked away in shame.

"Yes, Father?" he asked. His father sat on the bed next to Preston, just as his mother had done.

"I understand it's a shame that things didn't work out with you and the girl," he began. "She... I can understand that a high-spirited woman like that would be very beguiling to a young man like yourself."

Preston smiled for the first time in three weeks at the memory of what Clara had said to his father. He nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. His father's face hardened a little.

"There's only one way to get through this, young man. You must take responsibility. You must become a true Lodge. Throw yourself into your work. Work hard, earn your fortune. Life isn't all about love and roses and walks in the park, Preston. It's about work, determination, being hard and mean if you have to be. But nobody is going to give you anything if you don't work for it. Work, my lad. That's all there is," he advised.

Preston looked up at his father, horrified.

"That's all?" he asked, feeling as though his one last shred of hope was being burned to ashes in front of him.

"Love and women and affairs of the heart will come and go. But money, possessions - they will outlive everything. Mark my words, my boy - if you throw yourself into the family business, you'll soon forget that the girl ever even existed," his father advised. Preston stared at the floor, feeling utterly desolated.

"What if I don't want to forget?" he asked. His father shook his head.

"I understand that you feel this way now. But you'll see, it's for the best. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock, I want to see you behind your counter in the bank and I want to see you work that woman out of your mind. What do you say?" he asked.

Preston suddenly realised that he had already made the decision when he knocked on the front door. This was the fate he had sealed for himself. He was bound by the cruel wheel of Fortune to become the one thing he never wanted to be - exactly like his father.

"Yes, sir," he heard himself reply. For the first time in Preston's life, his father smiled at him. A genuine smile of pride and kindness that Preston knew he would have done anything to gain as he was growing up, but now he had it, he didn't want it at all. All he wanted was to stop hurting.

"That's my boy. Ever forward. That's the Lodge way," he reminded him. Preston nodded absently in reply.

"Ever forward," he repeated, quietly.

Preston A Lodge II clapped his son on the shoulder before standing up and leaving the room. Preston stared at the closed door helplessly. He knew that for once in his life his father had actually tried to say something helpful to him, he knew that his father was unaware of what had really happened. His father had merely tried to offer him a reasonable, practical way to get the whole, sorry affair out of his mind. The sentiment was supposed to be a kind one - so why did Preston feel as though he was being sentenced to a life of loneliness and emptiness, living in a harsh purgatory where neither real happiness nor true misery would ever befall him?

Was this to be his life? Fusing the remnants of his broken heart together with gold and dollar bills, forcing himself to believe that love didn't matter so long as he had financial security? It seemed like a lonely, sad life, one he had never planned for - one he knew Clara would never approve of. Clara would be so disappointed if he so quickly discounted all of their hopes and plans and turned into a carbon copy of his father. She hated avorice, unkindness and greed. All the things his father strove for were things that Clara avoided like the plague. To turn towards those things to seek comfort would be akin to insulting her memory, to pretending she'd never even existed. It would practically be an admission that he never really loved her in the first place.

He unopened his clenched fist and stared at Clara's wedding band again.

"Clara isn't here," he muttered, bitterly.

For several months afterwards, he worked in the bank for twelve, sometimes even fourteen hours a day. He would go to work early, he would stay late, he was as dedicated a worker at the bank as any Lodge had ever been. When he returned home, he would be so exhausted he fell into deep, dreamless sleeps. More often than not he would skip meals altogether, or take them in his room - he couldn't bear the look of sympathy in his mother's eyes.

At weekends, Preston found other things to occupy his mind, too, he played various sports and joined every political cause he could, left and right wing, just so he could enjoy the reaction of asking questions that would torment the organisers of either party. There were girls too. Lots of girls - faceless, nameless girls that he always genuinely hoped would be able to replace Clara in his heart and mind. After days or weeks of chasing them and vying for their attention, however, he would invariably feel sick to his stomach at the sight of them, as though he had just caught himself in the process of embarking upon an adulterous affair and brought himself back from the brink in the nick of time. He would then duly ignore them as soon as they started to take an interest. He wanted to move on, but he couldn't.

"Don't force yourself to bounce back, Preston. You're bound to hurt yourself," his mother had advised him. Preston had glared at her.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered, firmly. His mother gave him the knowing look that all mothers instinctively develop upon the birth of their children, but didn't press him into further conversation.

Eventually, as his mother had warned - he did hurt himself.

Around a year after Clara had died, Preston was working, as usual, in the bank. He hadn't slept properly in two weeks and had barely eaten in that time either. He was feeling a little under the weather and had dreamed about Clara so often that he felt the only way to be sure that the dreams didn't happen was to stop himself from sleeping as best as he could. A customer at the bank was complaining about a charge that had been made on his account, but Preston simply couldn't concentrate on his words long enough to understand him.

"I'm sorry, sir, you've been charged for what?" he asked, shaking his head and blinking as he, worryingly, could actually see two of the man.

"Do you want to fetch someone who can speak English, young man?" the man asked, impatiently. Preston stood straight, as if he had been shot.

"What did you say that for?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with hurt and anger.

"Because I've explained three times what my problem is and you haven't listened to a word I said!" he client answered.

"That's what she said to me, that first day at the bank," Preston told him, sadly. The man frowned.

"Who told you?" he asked. Preston blinked again, several times, and shook his head slowly.

"Who told me what?" he inquired, in a small, almost frightened voice.

The man had, by now, understandably lost his patience and a significant portion of his will to live.

"Young man, I demand that your manager comes out here now to deal with this problem as you are clearly incapable. Have you been drinking?"

Preston stared through the man, willing himself to focus. He slowly turned his head to call for his father, and then suddenly slumped forward over his desk.

He was brought home immediately and made, upon strict instructions from his doctor, to remain in bed and be force-fed, if necessary, until he was completely better. Some days he slept fitfully, some days he dreamed solidly of Clara. Occasionally he would lay in bed and weep until he felt sick because Clara had gone and she could never come back.

Then, on one rather insignificant day, he woke up and suddenly knew what he had to do. He got up, got dressed and, after making the necessary arrangements with his family regarding his future plans, he went to the church yard. He sat down cross-legged beside Clara's grave and rubbed his hand gently on the headstone.

"God, Clara. I miss you," he whispered. He bit his lip and looked down at the grass, not sure exactly what to say, and not sure that he would be able to say it anyway.

"I wish you were still here," he told her. He didn't expect, or receive, a reply. "I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am. I'm an idiot, and I need you. And you're gone. And I don't know what to do. It's been a year and I don't know what to do."

He buried his head in his hands and waited to calm down before swallowing hard and speaking again.

"I know you said you'd be there for me, Clara, but I know I've not been the man you'd expect me to be, either. I probably don't deserve you to look down at me. Maybe that's not who I am now. Whatever you think of me up there, please don't hate me," he begged. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and continued.

"I'm going away. I don't know where to. But I know I can't stay in Boston any longer. Maybe I'll go to California. Perhaps if I really get lost I'll be able to find my way back a little better," he suggested, hopefully. "I know you wouldn't stop me if you were here. But if you were here, I wouldn't need to go."

He stood up, dusted himself down and adjusted his hat before looking down at her grave again.

"I would give everything to have you back. Just for one minute," he told her. "I love you, Mrs Lodge. That's one thing about me that will never change. No matter what else has to."

It was a pathetic, broken figure that trudged away from the graveyard, a world away from the confident strut that Preston would eventually adopt on his adventures across the country. He wanted to forget everything, and the affable, good-natured, kindly young man who was scared of his own shadow was not going to last for five minutes in his bright new life, away from Boston, away from bad memories, away from good memories - away from his awful fear of turning into his father and brothers.

There were girls and there were parties and there were nights he couldn't remember, and nights he'd rather forget. He did things he gladly wrote to tell his mother about, and he did things he hoped nobody would ever find out about. No matter what distractions he put before himself, or how much money he cheerfully spent in places no Lodge should ever enter - Clara would always be there, waiting for him in his dreams - always an inch out of his reach, or always in his arms, just about to kiss him before he woke up.

Eventually, these dreams became less and less frequent. After a while, he stopped fighting them, stopped fighting his memories and cherished them. He still hoped that one day someone might come and fill the gaping chasm in his heart, but as the years went by and as he grew more and more accustomed to hiding behind the character he had created for himself, he knew no woman in her right mind would want to to get to know him well enough to see past 'Preston A Lodge III' and meet plain old ordinary Preston. Certainly no woman he could truly love and respect - nobody like Clara.

He stared at the empty bourbon bottle beside him and sighed. Clara would hate the man he had become. He had to admit that he didn't think much of himself, either - but what else was he to do? Who else was he supposed to be without her? Who would he have been with her? Why, after so long, did her loss still only start hurting him when he stopped working? It had been nearly ten years since he lost her. Why hadn't the pain gone away yet?

His gaze shifted to the ledger books beside him. They weren't going to check themselves. He ran his fingers through his hair and rested his elbows on his desk. The ledger books could stay unchecked. He'd learned to his detriment several years earlier that checking ledgers on half a bottle of bourbon and no supper was not exactly the most accurate way of keeping books balanced.

Eventually, he got up and slowly pulled his jacket on as he headed towards the door. His eyes quickly scanned the bank before he left. Nothing seemed out of place. He fixed his hat firmly on his head and took a deep breath before walking through the door. After locking up, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes in a brief prayer to anyone who would listen for him to not bump into anyone he knew on his way home.

He turned around and the first person he saw was Michaela, walking back towards her clinic with a bottle of witch hazel in either hand. His heart sank.

"Preston? I thought you said the bank was closed?" she reminded him, frowning slightly. He nodded, tipped his hat and grinned at her.

"It is. Good evening, Michaela," he replied, walking away from her, forcing every last ounce of feigned confidence he could muster into his demeanour until he was out of eyeshot. When he was quite sure he was alone, he let out a long, exhausted sigh and allowed his shoulders to slump heavily as he continued on his way home. He reflected on the day's events and knew that, if he could have told anyone about Clara, the only person who would really have understood him would have been Isabelle. He smiled at her memory. She had been so much like Clara. The two of them would probably have been great friends if life had panned out the way he had so desperately wanted it to.

Isabelle Maynard may have left Colorado Springs under a cloud of unpleasantness, and the townspeople may have never accepted her into their bosom as they had so many other people before her. But for a few short, glorious days, she allowed Preston to rekindle the hope of a boy that used to burn so brightly in his heart - a hope he never thought he would feel again. For that, he would always be grateful to her.

**THE END**

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this and for being so patient while I've taken longer than I would have liked to update (flippin' Real Life!). It's not been an easy story to write by any means, but having such unexpected support for it has been wonderful and has really helped me along with it. I'm toying with the idea of a sequel (possibly set after Season 6) to finally put things right for Preston - but I'm not sure yet, what do you think?


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